


An Inconvenient View

by curiouslyfic



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, Futurefic, Gen, Hogwarts Era, M/M, hds-beltane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiouslyfic/pseuds/curiouslyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is, by Merlin, some Slytherin future that's not all raging fires and death. She knows because she's seen the porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Inconvenient View

  
It's like this: full moon, silver wood, a string of blazing bonfires. Dancing herds, a writhing mass, a sense of celebration. It's mid-Spring, maybe, early May, and it looks a lot like Beltane.

She prays that's all it is but she's not holding her breath. This is _Divination_, so fuck knows what she sees.

There's a man. Dark hair cropped short, vegan build, flushed rose and sweating. Pretty eyes, luscious mouth, a nervous gesture that says he's used to wearing glasses. He's dressed in comfortable clothes, a pair of jeans worn at the seams and mercifully tight through the hips. She can't see his arse under his pitch leather coat but she suspects it's gorgeous.

Where there's one man, there's another, this one paler than the first. Longish hair tied back with string, nimble fingers tugging at his collar. He stalks the crowd, a predator's prowl, but never quite lingers while he's in the thick of it, his steps drawn impatiently to the edge of the wood where the first man waits.

She wants to think it's who she thinks it is. That they're both who she expects of wild dark hair and ridiculously self-possessed blonds and that this, this is something in their future but it's hard to say. This isn't a class known for producing results and she'd hate to think herself the first in her House's history to actually have one. Embarrassing, a Slytherin good at Divination. Improbable, anyone actually learning it at Hogwarts.

The first man catches the second man's wrist when he's drawn close enough. The look they share crackles, fire burning under her skin just at the vision, and in the moment, there's not much she wouldn't do to feel it as they must, to share what they are. She likes to think she's earned it.

That's all it is, just a touch and that rough, heated look, until the second man draws nearer, steps close of his own accord until the grey of his coat brushes the first man's dark leather. There's bits, maybe, hints of the boys they are in the men they'll be, a pointed nose and a trace of scar lined high on one forehead. She thinks this should surprise her more than it does but can't force herself to stop looking.

The first man speaks. His eyelashes lower, a crisp dark fringe that draws her in on his eyes, makes her miss the hot flash of colour she's tried to ignore, and when he looks up again, sharp and direct, she catches her breath. Whatever he's just said, he means, stark as bone and true as blood, and she knows gut-deep the second man's sneer. Sees it all the time outside the dormitory.

The second man--_Draco_, her gut says despite her--_Draco_ doesn't try to pull away.

He says something back, something that lights his face bold and brash, has Potter's fingers flexing tight on his wrist, whiting the knuckles. It's hard to deny that scar, though she's not sure what to make of the fact that it's faded.

Wonders if she's meant to see that they both survive the inevitable war, hatred in place, and thinks if the best she can do for her in-class assignment is another skirmish in the Great Prolonged Potter-Malfoy Affair, she'll drop this class by Christmas for the waste of time it is. Pity, for the years she's put in, but is this really a NEWT she'll need? Not hardly.

Potter says something else, something that looks like an apology, and his cheeks flush bright as he turns his head. No point in that, she thinks, there's no hiding that from Draco if he chooses to look, and she's cheered when Draco takes his chin to reclaim Potter's focus.

Draco's eyes look smoky. The brow he lifts smoulders, pushes heat through the shroud of her detachment. Trelawney's never managed to explain how visions feel--likely because she's never had one--but Pansy's cursory read of her text says it's not meant to be so immediate. She's not meant to be turned on. She challenges Ernest S. Hempferwhistle, Seeker Through The Sands Of Time and Emissary Of The Future, to see out Draco's look and remain unaffected. Draco, she thinks, could turn Nifflers queer and Carmelites to sodomy, should he choose to.

He's stunned Potter with that brow and Merlin, this class is always hot and incense-hazy but it's never been like this, never bad enough to have her squirming and tugging at her collar.

Potter's lips part, slack and innocent. He's a man with a virgin's mouth and she's not surprised when Draco takes it, pulls Potter in by his chin and kisses fast, sweet, dirty. Potter melts, shifts and sags, but he doesn't let go of Draco.

Pansy can't blame him.

Draco lays the hand Potter holds on Potter's jacket, slips his fingers underneath and pushes it off to bare one shoulder. Potter has muscle. Pansy needs a drink. Draco breaks the kiss to take Potter's throat. His fingers go exploring, tight swirls of simple touch over skin lit fireside amber.

Potter closes his eyes and arches his throat. It looks like he says, "Malfoy."

She takes that to mean they aren't friends. Intriguing.

Draco pulls Potter aside and pushes him back against a tree in the forest shade, far enough from the crowd she senses to afford them a bit of privacy. She has to squint to see them clearly but it's classwork, this scene, daydream or vision, and either way, she's earned it.

Potter leans back easy, hands loose at his sides, legs splayed just so. Doesn't look away from Draco's face when Draco pushes off their coats to pool them on the dark forest earth.

Pansy questions the need for coats if, in fact, it's Beltane, but decides it's just one more Potter fashion don't in a long line of many. Now that they're gone, she finds she doesn't care.

She'll hex Trelawney if the bint asks for details.

Potter looks drugged. Draco attacks, catches both Potter's wrists and binds them over their heads with one clamping hand, holding Potter steady and captive and vulnerable against the rough, ragged bark. Having freed up his other hand--pinning Potter's a two-handed task, evidently--Draco slides it between them and begins something Pansy hopes involves Potter's trousers. It looks--oh--Draco's elbow moves, unsteady and rough, but they're in so close to each other she can't make out precisely what he's doing. It looks a lot like wanking, what she's seen of it in the dorms.

Potter bites his lip. Makes a lovely line of himself when he surges forward into Draco's hands and oh, hell, Draco pulls at his nipple. Pansy laments the lost wank. Rethinks the appeal of Potter's arms because she's not enamoured by his chest, not by a long shot. Draco could do better. She has to think he will, flirty bastard as he's been.

Draco's kiss is beautiful, searching blind in need and oh, she's certain Potter whimpers when Draco bites his lip. He'd better whimper: she is and it's not even happening to her.

It feels so intimate, secret and adult in ways she's never suspected Potter had in him, so she has to think Draco's got him trained. Potter's always been Draco's pet Gryffindor no matter how much Blaise lusts from afar and it's nice to see that some things hold true through the years. Maybe this is how they'll fight when they've outgrown foolish hexing in the halls. Granger would love that.

Then it's like they're stuck there, like they lose themselves in that kiss, because they aren't either of them doing anything else and Pansy's fidgeting impatience waiting to see skin. Potter's chest is unremarkable, nothing to write home about, and she's already seen Draco's more than any girl should and she's 16, for fuck's sakes, would it kill them to get working on those jeans?

If there's going to be porn in her classroom Divination, the least she's owed is something explicit to hold over Draco's head and maybe take to her bunk.

Merlin, Potter's a whore for Draco's mouth. It's bloody ridiculous.

Then Potter's leg shifts and Draco's does, too, and Potter rocks like he's trying to ride it and Draco finally, thank fuck _finally_ makes a move for Potter's jeans and Trelawney dings her stupid fucking bell to say class is over, has been for minutes, put the crystal ball away, Miss Parkinson or I'll have you washing out my cups.

Pansy develops a deep, abiding hate for her professor that makes the three years previous look like mere mild distaste, but it pales in comparison to her newfound love of Divination.

.

They're supposed to move on. Tarot cards and tea leaves. Something about bones. Pansy rolls her eyes and smirks and bears it and when they're told about their final project, Pansy's first in line to make off with a ball.

She refuses to call it a Gazing Orb, much to the dismay of that arselicker, Brown.

.

_Pants off_, she thinks once she's squared away in some dusty, forgotten classroom. The stupid ball mocks her. Shines like nothing but a bit of glass no matter how hard she tries to focus. Pansy glares like she'd do at Blaise for saying something naughty and points a vicious finger like a wand. "I've been three years in that class and I haven't learned a damned thing. You can't taunt me like this, it's not bloody fair." The stupid ball sparkles in unseen light. She takes that as an apology. "Excellent. Now. Pants off. Go."

That sparkle turns malicious. What Pansy sees is this:

Blaise on his knees, not much different than when she saw him last. It's Hogwarts, a classroom, a professor she doesn't know, and Blaise looks like he's in pain. His eyes are wide, his mouth a rictus, and she prays that there's no sound. The useless bastards sitting around them don't deserve to hear Blaise weak.

The professor--she knows the robes though she can't place the lump of pig-faced wizard who wears them--is quite obviously the cause of his distress.

She searches out some form of help, needs to know who to blame for having Blaise hurt and on his knees in a classroom, and spots Greg and Vince on their feet front and centre by the professor's desk. They're both watching Blaise squirm and if they don't like it, that doesn't show. Her watcher-self fights a hot rush of anger when they don't intercede, fights another when she swears she sees Greg smile. See if she helps him with his homework. Slytherin loyalty's not meant to be so malleable.

Draco sits beside her, staring at the wall. She doesn't recognise his wand but his eyes, the flat grey of them, the dead press of his lips, that's both vaguely familiar and worse. She's not sure she wants to know what's happened to make Draco look like that, not unless she can fix it, so she looks for herself. Not there, nowhere she can see, and she takes that for a small, bitter mercy. She doesn't like to think she'd ever be that weak, sitting there and staying quiet to save her own skin. Not when the cost is Blaise.

Blaise says things that look like apologies, he's trying to _mean_ it, and the professor sneers something that looks like _extra help_ and waves one warty hand at Gre--_Goyle_, who can fuck right off with himself if he does this.

He does.

It looks a lot like _Crucio_.

The way Blaise arches makes a mockery of how pained he looked before, like what came first was _Rictusempra_.

Horror stings her eyes. The Gryffindors--fuck, the bloody House of Noble Idiots let this happen, where the fuck is Potter now or, shit, Dumbledore, why's it suddenly all right to use Unforgivables against students, regardless of House--the Gryffindors sit quietly, silent and grey, their hands folded neatly in their lap.

She abhors their restraint.

Draco bristles _that's enough_ and shoves off his chair, palms braced on his desktop. He is marvellously riled and even his Slytherminions take note. Draco leads because that's what Draco does, takes control of wayward Slytherins and keeps them in line, and he's walked himself between Blaise and those wands before they understand what's happening.

In _Crucio_, Draco looks a lot like Blaise.

.

She comes back to herself on the floor of a rotting room, nothing but the ball to see the way she reacts, the fear she can't shake for trying. She slumps away from her work and tucks her knees under her chin, hugs her legs tight and does her best to hide her face until she feels she has some Slytherin semblance on it.

It takes her a while to think past _Crucio_, _Hogwarts-Crucio-boys_, but when she does, she laughs like Mum on the gin. It's not the first prank her boys have pulled on her--though they've held off for a while--but at least it absolves her of unforeseen skill at Divination.

.

Trelawney blinks when Pansy stays after class.

"About my project," Pansy starts, and Trelawney swoons the groan that says she anticipates flash-prophecy. Pansy's not sure how she's meant to react one-on-one though she anticipates her in-class reaction, a quick roll of her eyes and a shared nudge with Mill, is out.

"Oh, of course, my dear," Trelawney says. Tips the back of her wrist to her head and shivers some sort of mental pain. "I _knew_ the Gazing Orb was too difficult for you, simply _knew_ it. It's simply too complex." Pansy stifles the urge to swing said orb at Trelawney's exposed midsection. Clearly, she's spent too much time with Draco's Slytherminions if she's this easily pushed to violent thoughts. "By all means, choose something else. I believe I've--yes, there they are--I've saved Kneazle bones for you just there."

"You want me to cast Kneazle bones?" Even to herself, Pansy sounds dangerous. Trelawney doesn't notice, surprise, surprise.

"It's that or entrails," Trelawney says like that's an option and when Pansy asks if there's anything less revolting left to be chosen, Trelawney just blinks.

Pansy sticks with her ball. She spends the whole walk back to the dorm plotting how she'll fix whoever's using it to play tricks on her.

She has an irrational hope that it's Goyle so she'll have a reason to hex him eunuch. It's not like he'd tell.

.

Pansy spends a week in the Restricted Section researching the basics. It's not that she's scared of the stupid ball, it's just that she thinks she should know what the hell she's doing before she looks at it again.

.

Candles, check. Cloth, check. Quiet, check, and privacy, fuck yes. The spells she's used to lock the door will keep even Draco busy long enough for her to get a good peek and if she's really lucky, she'll see him mussed up by her wards before he's hauled off to see Pomfrey.

She tries not to think about the unlikelihood it'll be Draco trying to get in. Two months into Sixth Year and she can already feel him slipping away.

The books say to have a clear question in mind. She's got one this time, uncomfortably aware thinking things like, "I'm bored," and "Get me the fuck out of this class," and "Pants off," are nowhere near appropriate. Maybe it's her punishment, then, that last nightmare thing she's seen.

She flexes her fingers. Lays aside her wand. Hovers both palms close to the sleek, gleaming upper curve and closes her eyes to block out the world.

"Show me our future," she intones and when she jolts and winces, when she realises that's not much of a question, either, the ball's already sparkling mischievously at her, sucking her in.

It's like this:

A bright grin, too-white teeth, a dark arm slung about her neck. The sense of laughter, familiarity, a field greener than anywhere she's travelled and someone tugging at her hand. Someone small, ginger, whiskey eyes and a Parkinson pout.

A cottage, thatched roof and meticulous rose garden. Pick-up Quidditch on the lawn and Lovegood dancing by herself, light and graceful as a breeze.

Very well and all, Lovegood dancing, but it's not like Pansy cares. Hasn't had a thing to do with her since the Squad last year and frankly, that's likely for the best. No shortage of oddities in Slytherin House.

_Blaise_, she thinks because they're nowhere near school as far as she can tell and she's worried that she can't see him. She can feel the ball tut-tut her. The world blurs.

Then it's:

Damp and darkness and nothing but fear, the deathly stillness of the Forbidden Forest. Hunted, pulse too fast and breath too loud, the rustle of robes and leaves just behind her. There's something in these woods, something horrible and vicious she needs to escape. A hand on her arm and she turns, finds Blaise bent over breathless and waving her on. Behind him, the sky lights, Wheezy Weasley fireworks or war silhouetting the tallest Hogwarts spires. Blaise squeezes, grips so hard she swears she'll bruise, and she can't tell what he's saying but she swears he's telling her to run.

She can't. _Draco_, she thinks, _if we're escaping, we wouldn't go without him_.

She swears the fucking ball laughs.

Then it's:

Fire. A swirl of dark hair just beyond the flames. Stacks and stacks of useless things burning up, ash that doesn't know it will be, and the tug of strong magic licking like heat on the dry, musty air. Panic. Derision. Draco turns wildly, dead eyes and a grim resignation that says he doesn't expect he'll leave this room.

_No_, she thinks, _buggering Muggle fuck no_, because the future can throw a dozen horrors at her and she'll just have to take them but she's not losing Draco. She's Pansy fucking Parkinson, bitch, the future can kiss her sublime Slytherin arse.

Muggle fuck this ball and her stupid project. Nothing but nightmare fodder anyway, isn't it? She leans back and snatches up her wand to flick the candles out and doesn't even care how long she spends sitting shaken in the dark.

.

There is, by Merlin, some Slytherin future that's not all raging fires and death. She knows it because she's seen the porn. It's got to be Draco and Potter she saw molesting each other on that tree because she can't think of anyone else that pale, that pointy, that stupidly scarred, and in the lingering hours that follow her newfound night terrors, she tries to focus on that.

Draco, she knows, makes it to adulthood and turns scrappy-sexy on his favourite hate. She wonders if it's the mancrush of arch rivals and manages a laugh when she thinks of how Draco'd like hearing that. When she sees him next, she vows she'll tell him just to watch him explode.

They like to say Blaise is queen of the Slytherin snits but Draco's got the perpetual title for most entertaining explosions of rage. For that alone the rest of Slytherin sort of adores Potter. Just, they'll never say.

.

The ball mocks her. Taunts her from its bag, a malevolent force she can't quite bury under soft black velvet after all. Fucker. She ignores it for two weeks, blows all her time with Mill and Daph in the Common Room and joins the Anti-Slughorn, Bring Back Snape Potions rebellion when it starts. Blaise goes Slug Club prat and Draco disappears but Pansy keeps busy, she's got her own life and from what she's seen, they can't any of them escape each other for too long. And for a time, it's quiet in her head, no time but the present except in vicious dreams.

Then Binns goes on some great Goblin ramble and she nods off at her desk.

There is:

A posh flat in blacks and greys, something large and dark and Muggle blaring colours through its glass. Not quite a portrait, nothing so discerning, and she thinks she sees some kind of sport. Reason enough to dismiss it for the Prophet on her lap. _Malfoy's Secret Shame_ writ bold across the page, photograph more lewd than its caption: _Full moon sighted in DE heir's Muggle flat_.

She knows that bare arse. She'll even take an educated guess at whose hands are gripping it like that, despite the way his lover's face is buried in tangled blond hair and a vampiric-pale neck. The shift of heavy curtains makes it quite clear what's going on and Pansy bites her cheek to hide her snicker at the pair of them caught out so publicly.

Men and their pricks, honestly. Can't keep them in their robes for trying.

Older Draco. _Pornish_ Draco, _quelle surprise_, and when she looks beyond the paper, she finds the man himself burning not to speak. His eyes look shifty but he can't quite hide his grin, which is almost enough to make the public debacle of a window fuck caught on film worthwhile. It's his impatiently-explaining face and his do-not-make-me-talk-about-this eyes and if she's any judge, the way he's squirming says that picture's not but hours old.

If the Prophet's date's right--and that's the only thing they do get right religiously--they're 26, more than old enough to be this kind of stupid if they choose. Draco waves his hands, _Stop asking, no, there'll be no details, fuck off, you nosy bitch_, and unless he's had a total personality adjustment, he doesn't mean that. If he did, she wouldn't be there.

Oh, her idiot friends. She swears they both need keepers.

It's not until she pats his hand in fond sympathy that she notes the ring upon her own. It's enough to jolt her back to Goblins and the utter boredom that is Binns.

.

She's two for two on missing porn, which is frustrating. Also, she hasn't seen Blaise in any sense beyond what she's come to think of as war, and there's an unsteady roll of pitch in her gut that maybe that's indicative. Merlin knows how they'd have escaped if the battle came to school and knowing Potter's luck, Dumbledore's pandering, it's entirely possible it will.

It's a fucking grudge match with that ball when she sets it out again. Round Four, she thinks, but she's not sure how to count that mash of spinning Lovegood and fleeing Blaise, so she doesn't commit to it.

Questions. Yes. She can do this. She's broken every rat bastard who's Sorted to her House since First Year, kept a safe social space for herself through wits alone _and_ survived Parkinson Manor, gin-swilling Mum and all. She'll not be beaten by a stupid bit of crystal.

"Well," she says, "would you rather show me Blaise after the war or a decent run of porny Draco?"

The ball tugs her in before she can close her eyes.

.

She gets:

Mid-Summer, maybe. A beautiful day, the sort Draco always wants to wreck with Quidditch and sends Blaise running at the nearest lake, stripping off as he goes. Indoors, a smallish room, almost dainty, all windows and doorways and flowers set on decorative bits pretending to be useful tables. Filmy drapes bleed the room soft focus and a breath of breeze to tease them. The feel of pearls at her throat and a mass of upswept hair. A man, scruffed and ginger, shifts in his suit, bobs his head to a beat she can't hear, both hands stuffed in his pockets, oblivious to wrinkles. He holds his head at an angle that defeats the gilded mirror before him, hides his face, though she's got no complaints about being presented his back. Evidently she's fully capable of overcoming her anti-ginger tendencies for the right bit of arse.

A rustle when she walks, lace and silk and crinoline she feels, even if she can't hear it. She trips up, stumbles, reaches out to one side and feels another smallish table shake.

Her ginger arse turns then, sees her in the mirror, and her breath's caught on how he smiles, wicked and devious and adoring. A Weasley, but a good one, and she itches to ask his name because she can't tell him from all the others she's known, though she hopes he's not the girl one. Pansy wants no truck with those spells.

He reaches out and cocks his head, incites rebellion with a twisted eyebrow, and she spots the dark blot by his hairline a heartbeat before she spots the gold band he wears. She doesn't need to check to know it matches hers.

With that knowledge comes a swirl back to Hogwarts that jars her out of the ball. It's trouble, she's read, trying to read one's own future, but in true Pansy form, she's gotten what she wants.

She might not know his name, her lovely-arsed Weasley, but she'll keep an eye out for the earless one.

All the same, she wants answers.

"That's not what I asked," she tells the ball. Feels silly as she does but at least she has no witnesses. Slytherin requires pride and she doesn't give hers up lightly. "Where is Blaise the night he turns 25?"

She can't think what she'll do if it shows her a grave.

Then there's:

A grotty club with a pressing crowd, too many bodies and too much skin. Eurotrash, probably Muggles, and she follows one out as he shoulders a path. When he stops short, veers wildly to the left, she nearly stumbles over him.

Neville Longbottom helps him up. The him in question is evidently Blaise, and she only knows that because he's far too free about roaming the Common Room in his all-together. When he's had a bad day of classes or gone too long--whole days, the bastard--between meaningless gropes in the corridors, Pansy swears it's only Draco who keeps him dressed at all. Pansy's incredibly grateful.

Blaise looks...comfortable. Common. Easy. Loose in his skin and from the red in his eyes, well and truly blottered, which explains why he feels Longbottom needs a hug.

It doesn't explain why Longbottom fails to hex him or shove him away but Longbottom's a Gryffintwit and they're fallibly brave. If and when war comes, they'll choke on their own courage, the lot of them, and Pansy's fine with that, can live with that, provided it keeps her boys safe.

Blaise staggers into a stall in the men's room, which is every bit as disgusting as Pansy's always thought, and Longbottom levers him down to hang off the toilet. It promises to be a legendary display of inebriated nausea. Blaise pounds a fist on the wall above the toilet roll and yells something that makes Longbottom smile. The wall he's hit keeps moving so Pansy checks shoes, finds a posh pair interlaced with trainers, trousers sagging unmistakably. Pansy rolls her eyes. Figures, Blaise would be jealous.

She has to assume the posh pair is Draco, which feels like a second bird killed with one ball only she can't move easily to see through the wall. It's a piss-off.

The world blurs again. She fights it.

Flashes. Draco's face, flushed and damp and strained. Potter's tongue on his ear, Potter's hand on his hip, Potter's hips grinding. A loosened fly and a hanging belt, a naked thigh and Draco fucking Potter's thumb with his mouth.

Then she's out again, back in Hogwarts with some serious project rage and the urge to declare war on a bit of crystal.

Yes, yes, definitely a fucking piss-off, this thing.

It's all about the cocktease.

.

Ernest S. Hempferwhistle's got his head up his arse. Wouldn't know what to do with a crystal ball if it hauled up and hit him in his.

Because honestly, now that she's seen what she has, how the fuck can they expect her to stop without the answers that count?

Fine and all to know they live, but are they _happy_?

.

In Potions, it's:

A Hogwarts Tower, moonlight, Draco and a shaky wand. An old man splayed out before him, clever tongue and a withered hand that never reaches for his wand. She feels words, can't hear them, but she sees them in Draco's eyes, the way the dull sloughs off to twinkle, the spark that looks like flight. He's young still, himself as she's last seen him, only there's a gravity smothering the boy she knows, grey and grinding him down under it. It dissolves beneath those words and the boy she sees could be 13 for a moment.

She envies him those words; they look like peace sliding under his skin.

He wears that like an open wound, fresh and bleeding in his hopeful eyes, painted in some new resolve, and before she can enjoy it, this resurgence of Draco, Professor Snape interrupts them.

Kills that hope in a flash of green and leaves him worn and drawn and tempered, a weapon newly forged for indiscriminate use at the hand of some unknown master. She supposes his master's not so unknown, not really, but she's loath to check his arm.

The worst of it's that when she comes to, comes back to herself, it's to Slughorn puddled on Professor Snape's desk and Draco's worried look beside her. He lifts a brow _are you all right?_ and she chokes on her appeasement.

That night, she Transfigures herself a clear glass ball for the catharsis of a hour's smash-and-Reparo.

.

Her next DADA class, she can't look up from her desk. Doesn't trust what she'll do if she has to acknowledge the Draco-crushing bastard at the front of the room.

Of course she doesn't pay attention.

The ball exacts revenge:

Draco, a grown man, lying shirtless in the grass on a worn and battered blanket, rings of stone and stacks of wood set in points. Potter, too, also shirtless, shaggy hair and stylish specs. Potter's laugh comes easy, his smile comes bright, and he leans over Draco to spread it by osmosis, mouth to mouth.

Draco splays a palm over Potter's back and licks possession over wine-red lips. Potter points a wand at the stack of wood by their feet, lifts his head to ask some question that has Draco's nails curling into his back. At some point, Draco's taught Potter how to properly arch a brow and in return, it seems Draco's learned how to lay down pride when he needs help because his face turns blank and skittish. Potter shifts to curl on Draco's side, offering freedom and security in one slick move. He rubs a thumb over Draco's cheek, wand discarded near his shoulder, and tips his head down when he speaks so Pansy has to guess his intentions. It looks like, _Are you certain?_

Draco doesn't nod so much as he flinches but she knows his stubborn prat face and that's a softer version, so when Potter reclaims his wand and lights the wood, she's not surprised that all Draco shows is tension.

Potter kisses _it's okay, I'm here, you're safe_ sweet over Draco's jaw, nuzzles into Draco's throat and waits to block Draco's view of their fire on a moment's notice.

Draco eases. Potter's smile is lovely, blinding and proud.

They do it again. She suspects they will, they've got three more piles and it's clearly some sort of moment, and as each one's lit, it gets more intense between them. Longer touches, roaming hands. Deep and drugging kisses.

The last pile waits by their heads. Potter asks before he points his wand, so Draco's consent's important, only this time, Draco doesn't just squirm into Potter's hands and force a nod to make it happen. This time, Draco tugs Potter's hand to his fly and shoulders Potter over him, utterly lax save the frotting of his hips in slow, delicious grinds. By the time Potter lights the thing, all of Draco's covered-hidden-safe from the perils of open flame.

She thinks she understands that.

They move soft and slow, the care of longtime lovers, every touch distilled by time. They just kiss for ages, like that Beltane, and this time, she doesn't mind. The more she sees, the less she cares what's tucked in Potter's jeans and she can do without what's hiding under Draco's: theirs is a deep and pants-on love.

She slips back to the DADA class to give them privacy and finds herself trapped in a room with Snape monologuing.

He sounds just like betrayal.

.

Blaise says, "Done a lot for Divinations this term, Panse. Is that healthy?"

She steals his toast and peppers his tea. "It's school work, darling. Hogwarts curriculum. It's the height of ill-health and prospective insanity by its very nature."

Blaise scratches his chin and pulls a face she hasn't seen since Third Year, when he dared Draco to kit out Dementor-style and go mindfuck Potter on the pitch. It's a look that says he fears for the stability of his Housemates. "Yeah, I'll give you that, but really, Panse. Check your badge. Us lot could NEWT in obfuscation by Christmas Fifth Year."

"Yeah, but they give us seven to perfect it."

.

So when, mid-siege, the Dark Lord offers to exchange the school for Potter, Pansy skips the ethical debate. Draco's played whipping post for every Masked minion with a grudge to roam the halls since the term began, some dubious form of penance, and he keeps trying to chase her off in some sketch attempt to protect her. Like the badge on her robes isn't target enough in a school mourning Dumbledore.

He thinks he'll succeed like he thinks he has with Blaise. He talks like they're not still family, bound by their pants-on love and the great messy future they've carved in these past seven years.

Sometimes Draco's an idiot but he means well and he's hers and what Voldemort offers is a means to protect him now at the risk of the future she knows Potter has.

Nothing there to debate.

So yeah, this won't be popular, and yeah, it'll be her legacy, and she'll wear it like every other scar the students have earned in this battlefield dressed as school.

She shuts her eyes and draws and breath and asks her fate if she has options. How set their future is.

So it's like this:

Pansy rises.

Come morning, she might start searching for her Weasley but for now, she speaks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Olimakiella for hds-beltane 2009. Request was: UST, loads of smex, post-war/post-Hogwarts preferred but you're up for anything as long as there's a happy ending. Sad bits, angst, fluff, bonus points for humour. Well thought out characters, Slytherin trio, and fic that makes you think. Prompts were: psychic, window!sex, and curtain. I tried.


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